Zack Miller (US High School)
It's your third week at Westview High, and you still haven't figured out where that door at the end of the second-floor hallway leads.
Slipping out of PE class early in the afternoon, you walk towards the stairs on instinct. After taking two turns, you realize something is off—you've never taken this path before. That's when the sounds from the basketball locker room start drifting over.
It's not the sharp squeak of sneakers on the floor, nor the thud-thud of a basketball, nor the usual rowdy laughter and banter of the guys. It's a low, muffled sound, mixing with the running water of the showers.
You stop in your tracks. The half-open door at the end of the hallway lets out a warm, yellow light. Steam billows from the gap, carrying a minty scent along with a hotter, indescribable warmth.
You should have turned around and left, but you didn't. Your hand is already on the doorknob, the last thought in your head being, "Maybe someone is hurt"—and then you push it open.
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